Academy: The Root Of All Evil 2
by Joel182
Summary: Academy is a wrestling high school with a multitude of stories to tell. The tenth story ends at the beginning. John's POV. Cenaton. SLASH WARNING!


**DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING, SAVE THE PLOT! ENJOY GENTLE READERS :D**

* * *

There are many people out there in the world who don't wake up suddenly one day, rush to the bathroom mirror and stare back at a haunting realization that they are gay. In fact, there are so many people in that don't category that it would take three lifetimes to count them all.

As for me, I am not part of that group, because on this day I – John Cena – have just woken up to the horrific truth that I am very much a gay man.

First off, I went out with a couple of guy friends. One of those guy friends was Randy Orton. Randy and I have been friends since the cradle days, due partly to the fact that our moms were the kind who stayed home and raised children. Through gossip they found one another and remained rather inseparable since then. The other part of our friendship came from our own personal interests that differed in so many ways, only to cumulate at the end as something strikingly familiar. In other words, what we hated in each other turned out to be things that brought us closer together.

For example, Randy's anger problem.

Like most spoiled kids who stem from a multimillion dollar family tree, Randy had a temper that often started with desire and envy – two feelings he never once learned to control. As he grew older, the lack of knowing how to control all the emotions associated with anger multiplied at an alarming rate and developed into a cancerous disease doctors called Interment Explosive Disorder.

Being nine at the time, I never got what the hell that was supposed to mean – as far as I knew Randy was just throwing unnecessary tantrums and his Dad (unlike mine) didn't punish him for it – until the day came when understanding wanted me to know. Being a genuinely big kid, Randy looked older than he was (so much so that many people thought I was the younger one) and so often got harassed into fights with other kids. For the most, it was never really his fault. He'd claim self-defense and I'd believe him. However, as we hung out on this particular day, Randy suddenly left claiming he wasn't feeling well and wanted to just head home. I offered to walk him back, but he shrugged it off with a nasty tone and we went our separate ways.

Or at least he went his own way.

I can't explain it really, but for some reason I got the gut feeling that something wasn't right. And like my Dad always said, trust your gut. I did, and so I followed him, making sure to stay clear out of sight.

Then I watched in horror as Randy randomly bullied an innocent kid, and then proceeded to beat the shit out of him. I set myself up to stop the madness, but the kid's allies came along and began to tear Randy off the little boy. Once again, I set myself up to try and help (thinking not about how little I was in comparison to Randy, let alone all those other kids) but soon Randy kicked out of their clutches, and destroyed every living thing in his sight.

I can still see the end of that whole scene clearly. A setting sun somewhere far away retracting its light selfishly from around the buildings. Soon the light surrounding these two answers the call and leaves. Randy turns to walk away, and is instantly swallowed in the coming night. With unmoving and battered bodies strewn everywhere in that narrow alleyway, he looked like a demon returning to Hell. My gut then told me to turn around and run like fuck for my own life. My gut told me not to go near Randy Orton ever again. This was, after all, why he had no friends.

But then, like enlightenment, I realize the utter wrongness of that thought. Randy did have one friend. Me. So running wasn't even up for grabs. I had no choice, in this moment, but to go to him and lend a helping hand. Tend to his wounds and all that.

I should have listened to my gut, because the second I let my presence be known, Randy attacked me like a rabid dog. Funny thing is – as I lay on the ground with him sitting on top of me and punching the bones right out of my face – I could not even muster up the will to defend myself. I couldn't even bear to think about hitting back. Looking at it now (since I've come to terms with what I truly am), my inability to react came from the pain in his eyes. With every strike, Randy honestly looked as if he were about to cry. Therefore, I let him use me as a punching bag until exhaustion caught up. Then, with a look of pure and morbid horror marring his well-drawn face, Randy stood up and ran away.

As what surely should not be my reflection blinks back at me, I can safely say that that was the point where I fell in love with my best friend. Of course, seeing that I was only nine and still feared girls because of cooties, I didn't know that it was love. I didn't know that it was because of love that I went by his house every day to check on him. I didn't know that it was because of love that I stuck around. I didn't have the slightest clue.

But now I have a clue. Hell, I have more than a clue. I have another guy lying in my bed butt-naked. And me, standing here in my bathroom – so unfamiliar and strange now – also butt naked with deep purplish and red marks covering nearly every piece of skin I have.

Moreover, I recalled everything. Most people do stupid things when they get drunk. That's the story kids hear – especially this sixteen year old – and it does a wonderful job of making us curious rather than afraid of what those "things" could possibly be. For most sixteen years olds, those stupid things are trivial. Law-breaking, yes, but still nothing a slap on the wrist and a stern judgment from the folks won't cure.

But this, this situation that I've woken up into, is incurable. I find that out rather easily as I begin to notice that no matter how much I wash my face with this lukewarm water, the reflection staring back is still the same. It's still knowing and becoming.

It's not me.

* * *

Tag.

As far as most kid games go, this was probably my favorite next to wrestling, and third only to football. I loved tag for various reasons, ranging from its simplicity all the way to its ability to expand on random. At first, it was just Randy and I, but then a few more kids joined in and we eventually had to change the game into something far more tactical. At that point though, it becomes less of tag, and more of Call Of Duty. Nonetheless though, I stayed determined to have fun. Randy, however, was getting more and more annoyed with the growing number of kids.

It started showing, at first, with the scowl on his face. I glanced to see it at one point, but thought it might have just been the sun blaring into his eyes. However, it grew beyond that the instant a girl named Melina (from our homeroom class) jumped up on me and had us rolling around laughing till our sides hurt. The only thing any of those kids recalled was Randy rushing over and flinging Melina full-force in the direction most away from myself and bone-crunchingly close to the perimeter wall that fenced around our school's football field. For me the experience was quiet different, because I could see Randy's face when they couldn't. He was angry – that much was for sure – but when his gray-blue eyes came back to me, they looked just like they did the first time I saw him explode.

Unbearably sad.

I took a dip into the idea of confronting him about it, but right after he kicked me for my troubles, he snarled something wicked in the form of words.

"Don't fuck with other people's things."

I was thirteen then. He was only eleven. When I was eleven I didn't even know that the term "other people's things" could have been used to describe women. But I was thirteen when he said it, and I knew already about the variety of context. So I knew clearly that he meant I shouldn't have touched his crush like that. But what I couldn't quite figure out was why in the world did he take it out on Melina and not out on me? Why did he toss her aside so viciously, yet look at me like his very spirit had been torn out and ripped to pieces?

As Randy walked off in some of his residual anger, I watched silently while trying to comprehend all that I had seen.

* * *

The guy in my bed moves in his sleep. He shifts closer to where I would have been had I not woken up in a cold sweat, ran like a man on fire to this bathroom, and stood staring at a reflection that seemed too alien to be my own for a good while, only to extend an arm over to my pillow. Once there, he shuffled his hands over the spot where my head should have jolly well been. Yet it wasn't there. It was here on my body in physical form, but mentally I was in at least twenty places all at once. And the jet lag was proving to be too much.

I decidedly turned on the tap to a barely-there dribble, and washed my face once again. This time, however, I used up all the cold water that drained noisily from the pipe. I keep my head down for a moment, and do nothing much save stare at the water as it swirls down into the open drain.

Watching all this haplessly shoves my mind into a rush hour freeway of maddening memories that seem to give off dangerous levels of toxic luminosity as they pass on by in rapid succession. This wasn't an ordinary hangover. I was really recalling every detail of what had transpired last night.

First the drinking. Then Randy latching onto me for dear life as a result of him being a light-weight drinker. Then me consciously trying to desperately calm down my rapid beating heart, while coming off as something composed as I gently urge Randy off of me. Then finally, the part where this guy enters the picture.

I stand up – slowly like it would make much difference – and take a cautious look in the mirror. There it was again. That horrific reflection. Who the hell was that supposed to be? More importantly, who the hell was that guy supposed to be? Actually, as I turn to look back into the room, I come to realize how much I can't really remember his name.

Yet I can remember what it felt like to be inside him.

God. What have I done?

I feel like throwing up, but that's only because I want to feel that way. I honestly don't feel like throwing up, because I'm strangely not uncomfortable with this situation. To be truthful, I feel relief – like a weight's come off my shoulder – than anything else. I come to understand, as I stare into the steely eyes of the person behind the mirror, that this is what needed to happen. That this – me having sex with some dude I can vaguely recall – had to happen, because if it didn't happen…

…then it would have surely been Randy lying on that bed right now.

And that's something I would have truly regretted. The thought of how close I must have come to rendering a secret void and subsequently destroying a life-long friendship had me shuddering a bit to the feel of its icy fingertips. There would never be enough apologies to make up for doing something like…what I did to the guy…to Randy Orton. It was a violent act. I remember it being violent, as I clearly recall having – at multiple times – held the poor fellow with enough strength to shatter bones. Not to mention the fact that I had pummeled into him with enough grinding force to completely reduce what used to be his innards to dust.

Now I felt sick.

Now I understand what's looking back at me in this mirror. It's hunger. I was starving every day since I was nine. I was ravenous last night. And so the first meal that came along had been devoured to such an extent that it has now been an hour since I woke and yet the man in my bed has not been able to do the same. All he could do was shift one arm, feel a pillow and leave it be. In a way I was glad for two things. One, the guy was still alive. I hadn't killed him, even though my insatiable desire last night made me believe at certain points that I had. Or at least I was going to. And two, I had taken out my cravings on someone not Randy Orton.

What would I do had that been Randy lying on that bed? The only thing I could do was take my own life.

But it wasn't only because I knew I'd hurt him (seeing as though this was my first time and I obviously need to practice not attempting murder with sex). Had that man there been Randy, I would have ended John Cena's existence in this very bathroom today mostly because sex with Randy is knowingly something empty. Having not even so much as kissed him, I know for a fact how hollow Randy Orton is due to his very nature of treating people of interest like toys. That disturbing nature only evolved to a wicked second self since I told him that I would be coming here to the Academy. Since I told him we wouldn't be together for a while.

Truthfully, as far as Randy went, nothing much changed on the surface, but I'm not concerned with the surface. I'm the kind of person who watches what flows underneath. And what was streaming below Randy's sudden nice-guy behavior wasn't a change of heart. It was an understanding of how the world works, and how you can make it work for you that was far beyond his years. Far beyond us both. Yet Randy knew how to be nice. He knew what words to say. He knew how to lead people on.

I mentally blame his failure of proper drinking abilities for what occurred last night, but the truth is what it is. Randy touched me to get me to react. And I complied. Not willingly, but more so because my body couldn't help but be honest. I want Randy Orton. I've wanted him for a long time, and puberty hadn't helped at all when it granted me with a muscular build, and bestowed otherworldly sexiness upon Randy.

However, my knowledge of what Randy was doing isn't something that happened overnight or under the influence of Jack and his friend Vodka. Prior to last night, there were many different occasions where Randy would do or say something, and I would respond positively only to have him step on what little and insignificant hope I had. Last night must have been the final straw. Last night I decided to give up completely on making Randy mine, and instead decide to just follow along with his little schemes. If he wanted reactions, I'd happily oblige. At least, heck, he still wanted something from me.

As my eyes settle into the image staring back – molding it to fit my own face – I realize sadly that this is what it means to be utterly pathetic.

* * *

Being the son of a multimillionaire with good looks and brains to boot, Randy never thought about the future. In fact, as far he was concerned, there was no such thing. Nobody really had a future; they were just playing the roles they were born with. Going through the motions of a hand-written script without a moment's pause. That was all life meant to Randy, and pretty soon I became obsessed with the need to change that outlook.

It first started with his attitude. To be frank, as much as I claim to love everything about Randy Orton, his rotten attitude was something I truly wanted gone. So in time, I did little things that chinked away at that armor of anger he wore all the time. I started with taking down his guard that was built of stones made from the belief that everyone hated him enough to want him dead. Therefore, he had to beat them all at their own game. I failed at taking the guard down, but somehow I miraculously managed to make him think of people as people – not as potential murderers. In no time at all, the bullying stopped. Then so did the fighting.

The next thing I moved on to was his foul mouth. If there was a cuss word in existence, Randy used it. For three years since he was seven, I worked tirelessly in trying to get him to let go of that bad habit, and find a new resolve in expressing himself using subtle tactics. If someone pisses you off Randy, I'd say, don't tell them to go fuck themselves. Instead, force their will out of them by using body language, because chances are, their will wasn't even strong enough to begin with.

I haven't heard Randy cuss since he turned twelve.

The third thing I looked to change was his desires to constantly be alone. Or alone with me. The habit in itself was bad enough seeing as though it limited his ability to socialize and get his own set of friends outside of me, but then it simply escalated to something far worse when my feelings are thrown in. Having Randy want nothing to do with anyone else that wasn't me constantly put ideas of "maybe", and "hopefully", and "should I now" into my head. The battle to keep from acting out on those feelings often times took a huge toll on me, and saw me tired nearly ninety eight percent of the time. Sadly, no matter what I did, Randy would not bond with people the way he bonded with me. And eventually, because of his intimidating and heartless nature (the only thing so natural about him, that no one could change), the list of people I could ask to spend time with him dwindled down to absolutely nobody.

I was all that Randy had left.

That became the final nail in this coffin I'm currently in. The moment I stumbled upon that truth and took it home with me, I was engulfed in a never-ending warfare to act, but not act, on what I wanted to do to Randy Orton. So trying was the war that I had to often times hide away from Randy for days just to calm myself down and try to regain the composure I felt slipping away like sand between my fingers. But even a second without Randy felt like an eternity of torment. Thus, in the end, I had no choice but to try and hide in plain sight.

And here we are. Me and this guy. Me and this reflection. Three strangers whom I no longer recognize.

* * *

After a little over two hours spent washing my face and looking back at the mirror, I've finally managed to come to terms with the fact that I am very much a gay man. I know this is something I had come to terms before upon first waking up, but now I know why I'm gay.

It's not because I slept with another man. It's not because I'm in love with my best friend. I'm gay because I truly want to be. I want to like sleeping with men, because one day that man lying beneath tousled sheets and covered in bare skin will be Randy Orton. And I can't afford to not like what happens then.

/Alright/ I speak to what has now become my reflection, and steady a firm look on my face. /Trust you gut kid./

With that I exit the bathroom, and head back to wake the man in my bed from his slumber. It'll be one year exactly before Randy enters the Academy. When that time comes, he'll be rooming with me. I can't afford to have a man lying next to me. I can't afford for him to know that I'm gay.

And, most importantly, I can't afford to have him find out that I love him.

"Hey" I shake the exposed shoulder. He mumbles and stirs – still clinging to sleep. I smile a little. "It's time for you to go."


End file.
